The Tomboy Never Gets the Guy She's After
by The Lady Nightingale
Summary: Sif is the tomboy who runs with the boys, but that's partly so she can be near one in particular... A Sif's-eye view of Thor: The Dark World, and what might happen afterwards.
1. Chapter 1

**The Tomboy Never Gets the Guy She's After...**

**Seriously, if I owned anything to do with Marvel (except DVDs - got lots of those) I would be playing house in Asgard.**

Training with the Einhejar was generally a distraction. Sif supposed it ought not to have been – war was a serious business, and today, for example, they were under the eye of the All-Father. Not to mention the ever-present Huginn and Muninn. Thor had not yet attended the training ground this day – he had mentioned something about visiting his mother. Sif had very little in the way of family, except that family with whom she had shed blood: the princes, the Warriors Three, and the Einhejar, who had first allowed her presence after Queen Frigga had put down five of them in a row and then suggested that perhaps Shield Maidens were not to be scoffed at after all. Sif had always liked Queen Frigga.  
Her sparring partner thought he'd caught her off guard, but Sif had learned a little about the effective use of bluff, even if she generally scorned the teacher. The soldier landed hard on his back, the butt of her spear at his throat. She glanced up to see if the All-Father was watching, had seen her – possibly overly womanly – feint. Thor had arrived, and was talking with his father. From the gazes they threw her way, something had passed she did not understand. Thor would never notice her for more than her sword, of that she was sadly certain. But what had the All-Father said? She returned her gaze to her opponent and offered her hand. "Again?"

"There was a time when you would celebrate for weeks." Sif missed those days. Before Midgard; before Loki and Jotunheim.  
"I remember you celebrated the Battle of Harokin so much you nearly started the second."  
"Well, the first was so much fun…" It had been, too. Thor had thanked her for a particularly neat save. Volstagg & Hogan, knowing her style, had pulled off some very complex team manoeuvres that made all the difference. Even Fandral – even Loki – had fought well and shared her joy in the hard-earned victory.  
"Take a drink with me. Surely the All-Father could have no further task for you tonight." She made to take his arm, and then thought better of it. Sif had worn a dress instead of her armour – something in the All-Father's gaze had prompted it, but she was sorry now. She felt awkward, and had had a drink or two already to steady her nerves. Battle was far easier. "This is one I set myself."  
"It does not go unnoticed that you disappear each night. There are Nine Realms – the future King of Asgard must focus on more than one."  
Damn. Damn.  
Anything for a little of the Trickster's silver tongue. He would have laughed at her for saying it, for wanting to say it, but he would have said it better.  
Sif was the only maiden who could keep up with the boys, the only one who'd even tried. For a long time, that had been enough. She had been able to see that Thor never took any of the women he had seriously, and his company and serious attention had been reserved for her. She had hoped, of course, that one day there might be more to it. Loki had seen through her – also of course. Little rat. But he enjoyed having a hold over her far too much to say anything to his brother or their friends. Norns, she had hated his snide remarks when the others were out of earshot.  
Then Jotnar broke in to Asgard in the middle of Thor's coronation, and nothing had been the same again.  
"I thank you for your sword, and for your counsel, good Lady Sif."  
Damn. Damn. Damn.

Sif was eager for the skirmish in the dungeons. Take her mind off things. The Einhejar had resented her presence once. Now she had saved enough of their lives that they accepted her marching in their ranks without a murmur. Her mind ran over the layout of the prisons, but then the All-Father had ordered the detachment with which she marched to the Weapons Vault. A more important station, certainly, but what chance was there really that anything worth fighting would make it out of the lowest levels?  
That's when she had seen her. Jane Foster of Midgard. Of course, they had met before, but Sif hadn't understood then that Jane was any different from any of the other women Thor had found to stroke his ego over the centuries she had known him. Now Jane was in company with the Queen. Had Thor brought her back to meet his parents? Was it that serious? Was _he_ serious? Mortal lives were fleeting, 'twas said; and Sif truly hoped it was so.  
Jane wore a fine gown, so clearly she'd been in Asgard a while – at least since the previous night. Jane saw Sif's glance but seemed to make nothing of it.  
The Lady Sif was probably the only person in Asgard who was glad of the coming of the Dark Elves – she needed something to hit. She had ended several, but not so many as Volstagg claimed for himself. They were good fighters, for all their centuries of suspended animation. Sif was quite pleased.  
At least, she would have been. She was sorry there were so many Aesir dead, but they had died in battle and were headed for Valhalla. What more could one hope for? That was before Sif had learned that Queen Frigga was of their number. The Queen had taken on Malakeith and Algrim the Kursed alone to defend Thor's mortal. Sif would probably have done the same, but Sif's life would have been a small thing to loose. Jane Foster – all of Midgard – was not worth this price.

"What then?" asked Fandral, as Thor explained his – surprisingly well-thought-out, for him – plan. Loki had been the group's strategist. Volstagg wasn't bad either, for his aim was always to get the six of them back in no more than six pieces in order to tell the tale. Thor most often provided the muscle. He had grown of late, Sif observed.  
"Your lovely mortal –" 'Trust Fandral to notice that' thought Sif, "- is being guarded by a legion of Einhejar who will see you coming from miles away."  
"I won't be the one who comes for her." He looked at Sif.  
Oh Norns, no. Send Fandral. Call Hogan back from Vanaheim. Of course, that was rather the point – no Bifrost, no Tesseract. Sif pitied the soldiers on babysitting duty, since she cared too much for Thor to refuse him or take her anger out on Jane Foster.  
Sif didn't recall much detail of the rest of the plan. She tried to hide her fuming and tried not to hope the Aether would kill off the mortal before Malakeith could be manoeuvred into removing it.

The Einhejar were happy enough to exchange greetings with her. Didn't even caution her to stand back when they unlocked the doors to bring in a meal. 'Mortals are ridiculous!' they had told her, and Sif had heartily agreed. 'They can eat so little, and yet they have to do it so _often_.'  
"I'm not hungry." Well, there was a little spirit there. Not enough to excuse Thor's appalling taste. Or cost Asgard's Queen her life. Two blows were all it took, though Sif would have enjoyed more. "Good. Let's go."  
Sif was already moving away. She had no intention of making things easier for the human, who grabbed a quite disreputable coat and was trying to put it on as she half-ran to keep up. Could she possibly imagine she would be less conspicuous in Asgard in such a garment? "Lady Sif!" She slowed a fraction. "Why are you doing this?" Sif pondered a moment, though she maintained her pace. She could hardly say 'Because I love your prince' and 'This isn't the first time I've committed treason for Thor' wasn't much better. She settled on: "For Asgard."  
"Well, thanks. What happens now?"  
"Now we get you off world so Malakeith will have no reason to attack and our people will be safe. Thor thinks we can deal with Malakeith with you to draw him out." Sif hoped it sounded callous. It was petty, for a warrior, but from what she had seen of Fandral's women, this was how they fought among themselves. Sif hoped Jane saw it for what it was, even if she didn't understand.  
Finally. There were the princes. For a moment, Sif's mind couldn't process Loki's shackles – they had a lifetime of fighting on the same side after all, even if the truce between them had ever been uneasy. Of course – Thor had finally learned a little common sense.  
"You're…" began Jane. Ahh. She would have heard about that battle in that town, what was it called? Midgardian names were impossible.  
"I'm Loki, you may have…" Jane's fist connected with his face. Not a great punch, but enough to catch him off guard. Sif smiled briefly in spite of herself.  
"That was for New York!" Yes, that was it.  
"I like her!" proclaimed Loki.  
Thor turned even as Sif did. Einhejar. Lots of them. "Take her. I'll hold them off." His 'thank you' was almost enough. She had grown sadly accustomed to 'almost enough'.  
As Thor and Jane moved on, Sif's blade went straight to Loki's throat. "Betray him, and I'll kill you." His smug smile was unbearable. Sif wished she had time to punch him as well – she'd do a better job if nothing else. "It's good to see you too, Sif." He knew exactly what it had cost her to rescue Thor's mortal, and he wanted her to know he knew.  
Damn.

Thor had said no killing. That was the reason for doing this, after all, to save Asgardian lives. Briefly she wished for her spear, but that was futile. She settled for her double-bladed sword and shield. The blades were not all she would have wished for. She cursed herself for not sharpening them in preparation for the fight as was her wont. That, too, was futile. The Einhejar knew her skill, and would approach her cautiously at least.  
Her opponents' first stroke was a clumsy, over-handed blow – probably meant to test her resolve. She parried easily with her shield, and forced its rim into the soldier's face. He would not soon forget that a shield is also a weapon. Sif took the next blow on her hilt as she recovered and used its force to pivot the blade and sweep back the soldiers who ventured too near, her blade ringing satisfyingly against armour.  
She raised her shield to ward off another blow, but a fourth stroke caught her exposed flank, making her cry out. Her armour did its job, but she knew from experience there would be a painful bruise if she survived. Her left arm coming down to protect the injury, she retreated a pace before the crush of circular shields. A pace, but no more for she was now hemmed in.  
Glancing around, Sif hoped Thor had reached the Svartalf ship for there was little more she could do. She drove forward with a lunge and, as her blade connected with a hastily raised shield, she felt a hard strike to her back, shooting pain to the ends of her fingers, loosening her grip on her sword.  
Thor had said no killing. As she was borne down to darkness, Sif wondered whether Odin had laid such limits on his Einhejar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Alas, I still don't own anything that belongs to Marvel.**

**Also, thank you so much to A Lonely Angel 6 who made me write my first more-than-one-chapter fic; and to Wilhelm Wigworthy ****who was the first to read & review & follow the previous chapter. Much appreciated! ****I wanted to get this up for you, but it doesn't feel as polished as my other stuff - usually because I mull over anything I consider putting up for a couple of months as a minimum. Maybe this is why I don't do chapter fics?**

Chapter Two

Even through her eyelids, the light was too bright. Had she slept till noon? Sif ached from head to toe, and she debated long about the effort needed to lift her arm and shield her eyes. With a groan, she flopped her right arm up and was startled to hit herself in the face with her own vambrace. Sif couldn't remember the last time she had passed out in her armour, no matter how much mead she consumed. What had happened…?  
Slowly, her mind began to process properly. There had been a fight, hadn't there? Not the one against the Dark Elves. She was fairly certain she had lost, but she hurt too much to be in Valhalla, and not nearly enough for her to be among the traitors in Hel's realm.  
Now why in the Nine would she think that?  
Oh, yes. She _was_ a traitor. Again.  
"Are you well, Sif?" So Volstagg had survived as well. She could muster no more than a further groan in answer.  
"Eir's assistants looked her over before she was brought here. She will be well." And that would be Heimdall.  
"Thor?" She managed to force out. There was a pause as Heimdall looked out.  
"Both princes and Jane Foster left Asgard, but I can see little more from here." Which raised a question Sif couldn't answer through the mist in her mind.  
"Where?"  
"Where else for Traitors to the Throne?" Of course. The prisons. That explained the too-bright light. She forced her eyes open, wincing at the brightness, and tried to sit up. Her left side was agony, and her breathing became ragged. Volstagg was at her side in a moment, moving easily in spite of his size, his hand on her uninjured shoulder. "Rest easy, Sif."  
Someone was missing. Not Hogun – he'd been on Vanaheim, or Sif would have made him fetch Jane. "Where's Fandral?" Volstagg shrugged. Fandral had been the last in the line, and had met the escaping trio outside the city. Even if he hadn't made it off world, he was the most likely to evade capture. Sif rested her head back a moment – it was swimming. Which raised another question: "How is it I have something to rest on?"  
"The healers insisted. Especially since the guards only had to fetch it from over there." He waved a hand, and Sif managed to focus on the chaos in the opposite cell. To add insult to injury, they had put her in Loki's bed.

Thor had said success would bring them exile and failure would mean their deaths. It was some time before they found out which their prince had met with, let alone their own fates. The first night, Volstagg and Heimdall had insisted she sleep in the bed – a point of honour because she was _injured_, they said, and for no other reason. Sif had made a point of moving around the next day – simply walking laps at first, then trying some cautious calisthenics to stretch out her strained muscles. Deep breathing still hurt a little, but she could move well enough if she was careful. Her companions joined her, but made no attempt to do more than she.  
Volstagg was complaining about prison rations by the end of the day, though that may have been because he moved some of his meal onto her plate when he thought she wasn't watching. He regaled them with stories of heroic deeds that may or may not have come to pass, watching her carefully all the while, trying to gauge her reaction. Heimdall gifted her with a few of his rare smiles and whatever tidbits of information about the princes' journey he could see or hear – from the soldiers and servants in the palace if not first hand.  
They worried about her, she realised. In this dungeon, awaiting execution for all they knew, and with little hope of Volstagg seeing his wife or children again, her friends were worried about how she was coping. She was surprised she wasn't angry about that – she usually hated them to make allowances for her - but actually she was grateful.

Sif had been trying to rest when marching feet disturbed her. It wasn't time for the meal, or for the Einhejar to change shift. More prisoners, then? There had been few arrive since the Bifrost was shut down. Odin didn't seem to have reopened it. "Look what the cat dragged in!" boomed Volstagg.  
"Prison food seems to agree with you, my friend: you are as rotund as ever." But for the voice, Sif would have had a hard time recognising him. His hair was matted, his armour dulled and dented, his normally pristine self marred with muck and blood. "Fandral!"  
The guard pushed him into the cell, and closed the barrier. Fandral staggered, and Sif immediately surrendered the bed. "Here, you're hurt. Rest." He sat down on the edge, but seemed able to do no more. Remembering her own rude awakening, Sif eased him out of back-and-breast and as much of the rest of his armour as she could decently manage. She brought a basin of wash water and a scrap of linen so he could clean his face and hands. "I see Heimdall, and one would be blind who missed Volstagg, but where is Sif? And who is this gentle maiden who ministers to me?"  
"When you are well again, if you continue this, I will kill you."  
"Ah, there she is." Fandral fell asleep almost before his head touched the pillow.

Fandral was never the tale-teller that Volstagg was; nor was his account particularly heroic. When he had rested and eaten – he looked askance at the prison porridge for barely a moment before eating his share at a pace that matched Volstagg's – he told them what he knew of the journey for which they had all risked everything.  
He reveled in the telling and Sif in the hearing of Loki's fall from the Svartalf Harrow. _"I see your time in the dungeons has made you no less graceful, Loki!"  
__"You lied to me. I'm impressed." _This had, of course, been directed at Thor.  
_"I'm glad you're pleased, now do as you promised: Take us to your secret pathway." _Loki had taken the helm and guided the skiff, his face filled with a glee they all remembered well. Loki rarely struggled to find something to enjoy, even in the direst circumstances. Most of the chasing pack had followed the Harrow, but not all. One found and followed them, and though Loki was a skilful pilot, it would not be avoided. "Thor asked me to deal with it, so I said _'For Asgard'_…"  
"Of course you did." Sneered Sif, but she was smiling.  
"… And leapt aboard the other skiff, and dealt with the pilot and the two Einhejar in short order."  
"Only three? You must add more when the reality is so sorely lacking: I myself fought at least twenty!"  
"Yes, but even if you really had, no one would believe you. If I may continue?" The others nodded quickly. Even Heimdall seemed to be interested in the tale. "Very well. Loki seemed to be heading straight for a cliff on one of the isles near the rim, but I was a good way behind, I couldn't be certain. When I got nearer, there was nothing – no skiff, no wreckage. I can only assume they succeeded…"  
"I saw Thor with Jane and Loki on Svartalfheim before I was brought here."  
Fandral nodded. Now came the less glamorous portion of his tale, and he wasn't sure where to begin. "My shipmates were unconscious – Thor said no killing, if you recall," here the others nodded, "- so I had little time. I turned the skiff back towards the city, and dived into the sea near one of the islands the fishermen use sometimes. When chance came, I bought a particularly malodorous passage to one of the fishing villages, told them I was heading for the mountains, and less than a day's march inland, turned aside and headed for that hunting camp we used to use. It is even more miserable than I remembered, and I had not properly appreciated Loki's gift for starting fires. Truth to tell, I was glad when they found me. Do you suppose we're for the axe?"

Later that day, Heimdall announced: "The Convergence is past, the Nine Realms still stand, and the universe remains one of light." Volstagg breathed out heavily.  
"Now we find out how much trouble we're in." Sif shoved him lightly.  
"Does Thor live? Jane? What price was paid?"  
"Thor lives, though he gambled with his life. I see few Midgardian dead – Jane Foster, Erik Selvig and Darcy Lewis all live. I…I cannot see Prince Loki."  
"You said once he could hide himself from you, he may be..."  
"Thor grieves." That was the last word said on the matter.

Marching feet disturbed the warriors once more. Tyr himself had come for them, with a phalanx of Einhejar. "My lords, my lady, I have orders for you." They stood back against the wall as the barrier was lowered. Eight soldiers entered and two chained the hands and feet of each prisoner, fitting a heavy collar for good measure. Volstagg, then Heimdall, Fandral and Sif were marched out of the cell in single file, surrounded by guards, and separated from one another by more. "See?" quipped Fandral, "They start with the big one."  
"Quiet you." snapped a guard, as he cuffed Fandral across the back of the head. Not yet a week ago, these had been comrades in arms, Sif mused. As they were pushed roughly towards the stairs, she wondered whether there was any point hoping for mercy.

Sif wasn't sure Thor's voice should carry to them where they waited in an antechamber to the Throne Room. She, with her constant companions of the last few days, remained chained, guarded and awaiting their audience with their King and their Judge. It seemed strange to listen in to Thor's conversation with his father. The Einhejar acted like they heard nothing, but perhaps they were accustomed to ignoring chatter they were not supposed to hear. _"One son who wanted the throne too much, another who will not take it. Is this to be my legacy?"  
_"_Loki died with honour. I will try to live the same. Is that not legacy enough?" _There was a brief pause, then:  
_"It belongs to you, if you are worthy of it."  
__"I will try to be." _Sif and the others didn't understand that part. They looked in confusion a moment, then adopted the stoic faces of the Einhejar, who seemed well practised at not listening. _"I cannot give you my blessing, nor can I wish you good fortune."  
__"I know."  
__"If I were proud of the man my son had become, even that I could not say. It would speak only from my heart. Go, my son."  
__"Thank you, Father." _She heard Thor's retreating footsteps, and realised he had said no word of them. He had neither asked their fate nor that they be granted mercy. Had they even entered his mind at all? Sif was accustomed to Thor ignoring her, but this was beyond all that. She readied herself to face with dignity whatever was to come - a traitor, after all, has no _honour_. This, however, she was not ready for: _"No, thank you."  
_She was imagining it. She had to be. Sif whispered to her fellow warriors, "Wasn't that…? Did that sound like …Loki?"


End file.
